


Cardassian Foie Gras

by Satchelfoot



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Action/Adventure, Implied Relationships, Light-Hearted, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:12:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satchelfoot/pseuds/Satchelfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian can never say no to Elim's dinner invitations—even when he has to fight his way into Cardassian space during yet another trade dispute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cardassian Foie Gras

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allnuthatchforest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/gifts).



“Doctor, it’s been simply forever since you’ve had dinner with me,” Garak said. “Why don’t you join me two days from now? At, say, 1800 hours? I do hope you’ll shave first. Your, er, four o’clock shadow is quite hideous.”

“That’s five o’clock,” Bashir grumbled, squinting at the comm link. “And I have every right to look disheveled. I just spent most of the night preparing a report on cancerous lesions unique to Denebian slime devils for Starfleet Medical.”

“That sounds simply fascinating, doctor. It really does sound as though you need a break. Why not join me in contemplating a divine Cardassian sunset? We’re having an especially spectacular summer.”

“I’m fairly certain that neither your people nor mine would approve of me entering Cardassian space just now, Garak. Why _is_ Cardassia at odds with the Federation this time, anyway? I haven’t had time to keep up with politics recently.”

Garak grimaced. “Oh, some new trade agreement or other. I can’t really be bothered to follow it myself. My government is being bellicose, yours is being insipid, and now our borders are closed. More or less the same thing that has been happening in cycles since we began rebuilding. Eventually, the Cardassians will begin to crave root beer again and send out a few diplomats to work a compromise. It’s no reason for the two of us to be kept apart.”

“And so I should once again steal a runabout—which will almost certainly be abandoned or destroyed on the way—risk being killed by the Cardassian fleet just for the pleasure of your company, and then hitchhike back to Federation space. Elim, remind me—”

“Ah-ah, doctor. We can dispense with the formalities once you arrive.”

“Fine. Garak, remind me why you’re never the one undertaking these ridiculous journeys.”

“Oh, come now, my dear doctor. You know as well as I do that you always love the opportunity to play Julian Bashir, secret agent, in real life. All that dashing from ship to ship and planet to planet: I know that no holosuite program can duplicate the rush.”

Bashir finally smirked in spite of himself. “Yes, well… I must think about more than just the two of us, you know. Ezri worries herself sick every time I go.”

“Actually, doctor, Ensign Dax quite enjoys it when you valiantly put yourself in danger just to visit an old friend. She has told me personally that she becomes… well, stimulated every time you take one of these hazardous journeys.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, my. Perhaps that was meant to be a secret for my ears alone. You Federation species are so poor at keeping secrets.”

Bashir leaned back, trying to reconcile indignation with satisfaction. “She _is_ always particularly eager when I come back, but I always chalked that up to simple relief at my survival.”

“Then it’s settled. You will show up in your best tuxedo, won’t you? My garden has had a very good year, and I’ve been cultivating a truly superb carnation to put in your button hole.”

“Well, I’ll certainly expect you to be wearing that flattering tweed suit with the burgundy turtleneck.”

Garak tilted his head to one side. “I suppose that can probably be arranged.”

\----------------------

The next day, Bashir found his runabout under attack by a passing Breen ship that decided to use him for target practice. As he effortlessly went into evasive action, he wondered idly if the Breen crew were drunk, considering the scattershot nature of their phaser fire. That is, until a lucky shot hit his warp coils and forced him to jump into the runabout’s escape pod. He tried to remember whether this was the eighth or ninth runabout he had lost in his unauthorized visits to Cardassia. Colonel Kira had always been remarkably kind and accommodating toward his repeated thefts, but someone at Starfleet was likely to start grumbling at some point about DS9’s runabout attrition rate. “I should probably just buy a single-occupant Klingon cruiser on layaway,” he grumbled as his escape pod shot out of the runabout moments before the craft exploded. “I’m sure Worf could find me a reasonable deal.”

\----------------------

Garak poured himself a glass of kanar and sat down to make a few calls. He still had yet to find a few items on his menu, and the doctor could be arriving in anything between twelve and twenty-four hours. The plomeek soup (with the necessary touch of basil) was nearly finished, and the Romulan ale to accompany it was en route. Only the earth food was still missing, but it was precisely the Earth food that was most integral to the meal—and most difficult to obtain. Garak sighed and began to go through his list of contacts in the new Obsidian Order.

\----------------------

Bashir, having been picked up in his escape pod by a passing Bajoran transport, took a moment to savor his raktajino before being dropped off at a mining colony on the edge of Bajoran space. Theoretically, Quark’s cousin Gaila, who ran weapons out of the colony, would be able to get Bashir a ride to Cardassia for the right price; he had come through at least twice before. Unfortunately, other passengers aboard Gaila’s transports were not quite so receptive to humans. Bashir fingered the phaser tucked into his overcoat and tightened his grip on the garment bag carrying his most important item.

\----------------------

“Yes, I understand the embargo, Ghemor,” Garak said as calmly as he could, “but surely you don’t expect me to believe that you’ve closed for business because of another infantile trade agreement. I happen to know that many Cardassians—a few in the Central Command, no less—are so fond of foie gras that it is now widely considered a Cardassian delicacy rather than a mere Earth dish. So please spare me your paltry objections and send me two of your best goose livers. Immediately.”

\----------------------

Bashir smashed the butt of his phaser into the face of a drunk, pugilistic Tellarite, who promptly fell over unconscious. Bashir sighed and took a swig of kanar. After dealing with three hostile aliens aboard Gaila’s vessel, he had finally admitted to himself that he couldn’t get through the rest of his trip without a drink. He was about to stow his phaser in his coat, hopefully for the last time, when he realized his garment bag was no longer sitting next to him.

“Bloody hell.” He whirled around just in time to see a Flaxian, garment bag in hand, about to disappear down a corridor. Without bothering to ask nicely, Bashir simply raised his phaser, stunned the thief, and walked over to retrieve the bag. Then he punched the unconscious Flaxian in the face a few times just to emphasize how impolite it was to steal someone else’s perfectly tailored clothes. 

The vessel’s captain announced that the ship would reach Cardassia in another five minutes. Bashir sighed with relief. “All right. Not too much can happen in a mere five minutes.”

It was just then that a Miradorn came up behind him and attempted to throw him out an airlock.

\----------------------

Garak put the finishing touches on dinner and went to change clothes.

Bashir, a few blocks away from Garak’s house, looked down and realized he was still wearing his torn, bloodstained travel clothes. “Oh, _damn_!” He looked around for the nearest alley.

Garak tugged lightly at the collar of his turtleneck and straightened his suit jacket.

Bashir emerged from the alley, shooting his cuffs and attracting the baffled attention of all passersby. He stopped at the window of a bookstore to straighten his bowtie in the reflective surface.

Garak had just sat down with another glass of kanar when the doorbell rang. He checked his hair and suit in the mirror one last time before opening the door.

“Elim.”

“Julian! Welcome. I’m glad you’ve arrived intact. Well, aside from that considerable bruise on your right temple.”

“Yes, well, we have an old phrase on Earth: ‘You should see the other guy.’”

“Ah, quite so. Well, come in, come in. Everything is ready. I’ll just patch you up and—” Garak paused. “Oh, I’m quite forgetting myself. Just a moment.”

Bashir sank into a chair and gingerly touched the side of his head. Garak returned with a small medical bag… and a carnation of tremendous size. “First things first, Doctor.”

Bashir rolled his eyes and allowed Garak to carefully place the flower in the proper spot on his jacket. Then he sniffed. “Is that plomeek soup I smell? And basil?”

“But of course.” Garak sat back and admired the carnation. “Perfect. Now, while you patch yourself up, allow me to guess how many fights you got into on your way here. And then I think I shall have to open another case of kanar. Welcome back, Doctor Bashir.”


End file.
